Sherlock: Aristocats style
by Special Patrol Group
Summary: Evil Snanderson tries to kill Sherlock in order to get Madame Hudson's inheritance, but luckily he meets an interesting stray named John. Lightslash, cat!Sherlock, cat!John, Sherlock/Aristocats crossover: unexpectedly serious plotwise XD Scatcat!Lestrade
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sherlock raised his dark head from where he lay on the sofa as the man entered the room, looking for all the world as if he had been there for hours. Madame Hudson knew he liked to make a mess with the paints, but he doubted she realised that the violin playing was him.

So what if he was a cat? Did that mean he couldn't play the violin? The man who had just come in with a laden tray would certainly assume so; but then he was very _dull._

_Snanderson._ The sole redeeming feature of that man, thought Sherlock, was that at least he could cook. Sort of.

He pointedly turned his head away from the man as he set down the tray, scowled in Sherlock's general direction and swiftly left to get on with other things. Why would Sherlock want to look at him after all? Humans were supposed to be _smart_ weren't they?

But then Snanderson was hardly an exception he thought as he heard that ridiculous lawyer of Madame Hudson's tumbling his way up the driveway.

He stood up, stretched, and leapt down from his perch on the sofa, stalking over to the creamy mixture that Snanderson had prepared for his dinner, before turning away in disgust and walking straight out the door.

Upstairs meanwhile, Georges Hautecourt had finally finished dancing with Madame Hudson and was getting out papers and discussing the old lady's will.

"So you want to leave everything to Snanderson? Stocks, shares, the house, everything?" He questioned.

"Oh no! No! No!" She cried jovially, "I want to leave everything to my beloved cat Sherlock of course; poor dear can't look after himself at all! I wish for Snanderson to continue taking care of him and then when my dear Sherlock ends his days, then Snanderson will inherit everything."

At the same time in the basement, Snanderson was doing his laundry when he heard voices through the speaking tube. To say that he was angry was an understatement. After all the hard work he had put in, all the _years_ of faithful service he had put in for the old bat, she was going to overlook him! For a cat no less! Not just any cat either, no.

He had never told anyone because he knew how it would sound. He knew they would just look at him strangely if he was lucky, if not then an early retirement would be in order perhaps, maybe in a lovely padded room, but he knew something was up with that cat. It was not normal, the way it looked like him with those too smart eyes. Like the damn thing was analysing him, like it KNEW what he was thinking.

They hated each other and they knew it.

His nemesis was a cat. Outstanding.

Well he sure as hell wasn't going to lose. No, he would get Sherlock out of the way, in a _less than pleasant_ fashion, and then it would all be his.

"Muah hahahahahahahahhah- Oh that muther f*!#er!" For Snanderson had just unveiled the next painstakingly cleaned shirt out to iron, only to have a cat turd roll out onto his feet.

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow that furry git is GONE."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dull, dull, dull. Usually Sherlock would spend his time running around the streets of Paris, looking for small rodents to play with, chase, people to mess with, but tonight there had been nothing, so he had been forced to return to the mansion and try to amuse himself there.

So far it was not going well.

The drawing room was a mess, the curtains and wallpaper had been painted on with his paws then shredded mercilessly, tables and chairs had been knocked over, vases and glasses broken and destroyed.

Essentially the only things that had been left _relatively_ unmarred were the piano and his violin. The violin because he had felt as though he might want to play it later, and the piano because there is little a cat can do, even Sherlock, to demolish a piano.

Of course that hadn't stopped him from trying.

At that moment however, Snanderson entered, carrying the usual tray of food. Sherlock pointedly rejected Snanderson but still observed him from the corner of his eye. He was frozen in the doorway, face aghast the state of the room. He should be, thought Sherlock; after all, it wasn't as though _he _was going to clear up this mess!

Oh Snanderson! He never learned his lesson, always coming back for more. He recovered though and sent Sherlock a withering gaze, with no consequence, with hate in his eyes but his lips were smirking.

Odd, thought Sherlock, obviously he must have heard about the will yesterday, he was doing his ironing and would definitely have been listening down the speaking tube to find out how much money he could get his grubby paws on... He must think I'm going to die very quickly, stupid Snanderson probably didn't even know how long cats lived. It would not be the first time he had shown signs of mental retardation he thought with a sigh.

Snanderson set down the tray and said nothing as he left; no doubt going to make stupid comments at people about how he thought he had just one upped a cat.

Sherlock approached the steaming bowl with little caution. Hmm, Snanderson must have done _something_ to it, but what? Poison was definitely out. Even Snanderson would never be stupid enough to poison the only other beneficiary to a will that had been made not a day ago, at least not with Madame Hudson still alive to change her wishes.

It didn't smell any different than usual he thought. Well done Snanderson, you almost got away with it. But no, the most likely added ingredient was some unpleasant form of laxative. Yes, that was definitely something that Snanderson would think was a smart, and HILARIOUS thing to do.

Well, Sherlock hadn't eaten anything yesterday, and he had nothing better, so he started eating. After all if there were any unpleasant results tomorrow, he knew EXACTLY where he would be leaving them.

Snanderson smirked quietly to himself as he went about his daily chores. "Stupid cat," he muttered to himself. "Thinks he can outsmart me! Well tonight, I'll get my revenge, and my money!"

Later, Sherlock had fallen asleep in his basket for once located in front of the drawing room fire, one of the few warm spots available on this cold winter night.

He didn't wake up as a dark figure crept into the room and lifted the basket off the floor and out to the barn. Not hearing Sarah the horse whimper quietly at what she saw. He didn't wake up as he was lowered into the side car of the motorbike, not when the engine spluttered into life and Snanderson nearly crashed it on the deserted streets of Paris.

Mycroft slept deeply in his pile of hay. Not-Anthea close by. It didn't matter that they were out in the open, he controlled this farm, he knew everyone and everything that happened for miles. He was untouchable.

A noise woke him. It was quite far away but approaching fast, a motorbike, a 1912 Ford by the sound of it. One of his long ears lifted up impossibly to hear it better. Suddenly Not-Anthea was there by his side, "What is it Mycroft?"

"Shut-up! I'm trying to listen Anthea!"

"Sounds like a motorbike!" She exclaimed excitedly.

"Shhh! It's getting closer!" he put a paw on top of her head and used it to life himself up so that he could look over the top of the hay pile.

"Ouch!"

"I can see him! As I thought, he looks like an idiot. Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully.

"What? What is it?" Not-Anthea whispered sharply, not overly pleased at having Mycroft stood in her head.

"That's a nice hat he's got there, and that Umbrella! Exactly what I've been looking for! Come on Anthea."

Snanderson trundled along awkwardly on the motorbike, not really knowing where he was going. He hadn't really thought this plan through and had no idea what he was going to do. Was he going to drown Sherlock, or just dump him in the middle of nowhere? He wasn't sure. No, if he just abandoned him the furry prick would surely find his way back home. They weren't even that far outside of Paris, and he had a limited amount of time before sunrise. If he wasn't back at the mansion by then even Madame Hudson would surely realise that something was up.

He saw a bridge not far ahead. Excellent, that meant a stream. He could drown the little bastard and then be back before anyone even realised that anything was wrong.

Like lightning, a farm dog suddenly appeared in the road in front of him, an old blood-hound barking angrily at him. He swerved instinctively to avoid it, careening sharply to the left.

He saw Sherlock's basket go flying from the sidecar and straight down into the stream below. Good riddance, he thought, but he didn't have long to congratulate himself as another, younger dog leapt at him from the side, a basset hound this time. It leapt deftly over him and knocked his hat clean off his head. Losing control of the motorbike at went flying off the road and into the ditch, bolts broke and the entire sidecar fell away, further down the slope.

He grabbed his Bumbershoot from where it had fallen beside him and scrambled back towards where the motorcycle lay, but dropped the Umbrella as sharp teeth bit into his rump.

"! Stupid mutt!" he yelled, pulling away from the blood-hound, his trousers ripping in the process, revealing a pair of heart patterned underpants.

He clambered back onto his bike and took off back the way he came as fast as he could, the dogs still chasing him until he had disappeared over the horizon.

Sherlock slept on calmly from where he had fallen out of his basket, onto the soft grass by the edge of the stream, still oblivious.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As he woke slowly, he began to realise that something was wrong.

The first thing that he noticed was a groggy, cloudy feeling in his head. It was hard to think straight, that was instantly worrying. As he began to take in more of his surroundings, he realised that he was cold. He wasn't in his basket anymore. Blearily opening his eyes and looking down he realised that he was lain on something green. He could smell, what was that? Grass?

He was outside? How had that happened? The last thing he remembered was suddenly feeling very tired not long after his meal, and going to bed in his basket by the fire. Of course! How had he not thought of it! He knew that Snanderson had done _something_ to his food and he hadn't thought of a _sedative?_

Like poison, he supposed he just hadn't thought that Snanderson would DARE. Apparently he had been wrong, he thought to himself grimly.

Still feeling a little groggy, he got to his feet slowly, stretching luxuriously, his tail flicking up sharply. Never mind, he thought, it wouldn't be that difficult to get home after all. He knew Paris like the back of his paw.

Except, he thought, as he climbed out of the small dell and looked around himself, he wasn't IN Paris. He had no idea where he was. There was a road, but he didn't even know which way he had to go. He had been completely unconscious the whole way here, he hadn't been able to deduce or take in anything about the journey. How far away was he? Which direction was Paris? He wasn't sure.

Going a bit further, he noticed tire tracks that matched Snanderson's Ford motorbike by the side of the cobbled road. Mud tracked back onto the stones. There were no signs of the motorbike at the other side of the bridge. It would seem Snanderson had run into some trouble. Good, thought Sherlock. The man was an anathema to him. Just looking at him made him feel stupid, but he wasn't going to let him win. He would get home and he would rub it in his stupid face.

He set off in what he now knew to be the direction of Paris at a trot, and heard a voice behind him.

"Where are you going?"

Turning round he saw a light brown cat. Much lighter than his own dark fur, slightly shorter also. The other cat was definitely male, and slightly smaller than Sherlock himself, emphasized more by the shorter fur.

He was scruffy. Not like Sherlock himself who, even now was pristine. He looked like a stray, that much was obvious. He certainly hadn't been taken care of very well at any point. His tail was bent at the end like someone heavy had stood on it, he limped slightly on one of his back legs, and there was a bit missing from his left ear; scratches and bite marks marred several parts of his skinny frame.

"Paris, where else?" He answered, turning round and continuing, not seeing any need to waste any more time talking to this stranger.

"Your walking there?" The other cat had caught up with him and was trotting alongside him, matching his pace.

"Yess!" Sherlock hissed, wanting this cat to leave him alone, he sped up. Sherlock never socialized if he could help it, not even with Madame Hudson. _Certainly_ not with such an obviously _average _cat like this one here.

"It's a long way." The brown cat said simply.

Sherlock slowed down slightly. Still not bothering to look at the other however, he asked suspiciously, "Why? How far is it?"

"Well it's at least ten miles, I can't say for sure, I've only been there once or twice, but I know an easier way to get there if you want." The offer was left hanging in the air for Sherlock to pick up, which he, reluctantly, did.

"How?" He had stopped now, looking to the other just in time to catch the satisfied look in his eyes.

"A magic carpet of course, and it's going to stop for passengers, right, here!" he said winking, marking a cross on the floor with his claw.

"..." Sherlock replied; which is hard to pronounce let me tell you. He gave him a long look. Maybe this cat was more than he seemed. He hadn't seemed dumb enough, or mad enough to believe in magic carpets, nor mean enough to make fun of Sherlock; but... never mind. He started walking again.

The other cat matched him again: "OK, so it's not really a magic carpet but it'll get you there a lot quicker than walking, and not everyone you'll meet on this road is a helpful as me."

Sherlock turned round to look at him again, getting annoyed now. "Is that what this is? You take one look at me and think I can't look after myself, so you do the charitable thing and help me? I don't need help, especially not from YOU, who clearly cannot look after himself. You, who obviously have never had a real home, constantly getting into fights DESPITE trying not to, and isn't close to anyone in the world. Oh, and you have a limp in your back leg from when you trapped it in a mouse trap, which is psychosomatic by the way, the wound healed at least a year ago."

"Wow. How did you guess all of that? You never even met me before today,"

"I didn't _guess_, I simply _observed_." Sherlock scowled with his eyes narrowed-

"That was..."

-everyone was so DULL, well that would get rid of him. Once people found out about his... _talents_ they usually wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. People didn't like to be reminded of their own personal inadequacies.

"-amazing."

His eyes widened at this, "That's... not what people usually say."

Now it was the brown cat's turn to look surprised. "Why? What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

The brown cat laughed at this, and Sherlock found himself reluctantly returning the smile. Maybe he wasn't so dull after all.

After a moment he asked, "So what IS this magic carpet then?"

"Haha! Just you wait and see! I think I can hear it coming, get ready! I'm John Watson by the way."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John led him over to a small tree and began to climb, jumping nimbly from branch to branch with Sherlock not far behind. About three seconds after they reached the top he saw it coming over the top of the hill towards them.

"That's a milk truck." He said flatly.

"Yes, yes it is."

"That's your _magic carpet_?"

"Yep. Get ready to jump!"

Before Sherlock could say anything else the truck was upon them and John jumped onto the ledge at the back, where the truck had fallen open.

Sherlock had no choice but to jump after him, nearly missing the narrow ledge as it sped past.

Before they knew it, they were laughing again.

Meanwhile across town...

Sarah the horse was worried. Sherlock was still not back. After all, it was not unusual for him to be gone for several days, but after she had seen Snanderson dumping something in his sidecar and coming back... ***cough*** worse for wear ***cough*** but still with that smug, victorious look on his face she had been suspicious. She was sure he had done something to him.

Madame had not slept a wink she knew.

Snanderson chose this moment to walk into the stable. "Morning Sarah, my pretty steed! Can you keep a secret? 'Course you can!" He laughed to himself here, "I've some news, straight from the horses mouth, if you'll pardon the expression of course," she glared as he brought out a rolled up newspaper and began to unfurl it so that she could see. "Look Sarah, I've made the headlines! "Mysterious cat napper abducts cat!" Aren't you proud of me?"

So it was him! She thought, as Snanderson kept congratulating himself on a job 'well done'. She didn't pay him any attention until his voice suddenly turned panicked and he started yelling something about, "My HAT, my UMBRELLA!" and pranced his way from the stables.

Back on the milk float...

Sherlock sat on the back of the truck, watching the scenery fly by, mentally cataloging everything, trying to work out how far away they currently were from Paris by the states of the buildings and apparent wealth of the people they passed.

Shouldn't be too long, he thought.

He heard a loud rumbling behind him, and he turned to see John staring at him, quickly looking away. How long has he been watching me? Sherlock thought. Odd, he was usually the one who did all the watching, not the other way around...

"If your hungry you should eat," he told him, pulling the sheet from a large and inexplicably open tank of cream that stood near where he sat.

"Y-yeah," he sheepishly walked over, before giving Sherlock a long look, almost confused. "I guess I hadn't realised I was that hungry."

"Sacre bleu!" was all their warning however, before the truck braked sharply, sending John, who had been too busy looking at Sherlock to balance properly, careening into the front of the vehicle into the cab, where he managed to cling onto the back of the drivers head, knocking off his flat cap and pushing his glasses askew in the process.

The man screamed and John leapt back, leaving scratches all over the old man's face, before running after Sherlock, who had already abandoned the back of the truck and was sprinting towards the long grass, the driver hurling projectiles and abuse at them all the way.

They made it into a small cabin by the side of the train tracks as the milkman drove off.

"What an horrible, horrible human." muttered Sherlock.

"And frankly a bloody _awful_ cabbie," John replied from beside him.

Sherlock snickered appreciatively at this comment. Yes, perhaps this John fellow was not so bad at all.

"Why did the milkman have a _wrench_ anyway?"

Idiot. "Isn't it _obvious_ John?"

John just gave him a funny look that Sherlock wasn't quite sure what it was actually supposed to mean. "Come on we'd best get moving."

"Let's follow the train track," Sherlock suggested. They followed it for a few hundred meters before they came to a deep valley with a river at the bottom, and continued to follow the train tracks across a bridge. They had got no further than halfway across however, when they felt the bridge begin to rumble beneath their feet, trembling. Then they heard the whistle.

"It's a train! Down underneath!" yelled John, and Sherlock didn't even bother to give him a dirty look for his obvious remark, simply leaping down onto the rafters below, or tried to at least. Due to the shaking of the bridge, he missed the rafter by inches, scrabbling wildly at it with his claws, but failing to gain purchase.

"Sherlock!" He heard the yell as he tumbled down to the river below, landing with a painful splash.

He had never tried to swim before, and, not being a very instinctual cat, soon felt himself being dragged under by the strong current.

Before he went completely under though, he felt sharp teeth biting the skin on the back of his neck and felt himself being dragged through the water. He was lifted up onto... a log! A log that was floating in the water. Panting lightly for air he turned to see John, beside him on the log.

"How are you even still _alive?_" John spluttered, looking at him with incredulity.

"You assume it was an accident." Sherlock bluffed. "Since it looked like we were going to have to walk the whole way I thought the river would be a good way to go. We're upstream from Paris and this will take _hours_ off our Journey." He finished matter of factly.

One look at John's patronizing face told him he didn't believe him in the _slightest._

You know the goose music? Yeah I need you to imagine it now. If you don't it won't be as fun.

Ready? Good, let's go.

Two geese were waddling down the dirt path by the side of the stream, (A/N: Seriously, they're GEESE. Going DOWNSTREAM. Did they FORGET how to swim?) waddling downstream, one was wearing a pink bonnet, the other a blue one.

As they waddled, Pink-hat turned happily to Blue-hat and said: "What beautiful countryside Molly! So much like our own dear England!"

Blue-hat replied, "Indeed yes!"

Pink-hat: "Oh I say look over there!"

Molly: "How unusual!"

What they had seen was in fact two cats, floating downstream on a log.

Molly: "Are they trying to learn how to swim?"

Pink-hat: "Well they're going about it all the wrong way, Sir! Sir!"

"Piss Off!" Yelled the light brown cat. The Black haired cat just glared at them, before the log hit a rock and spun them round, swinging them off the log and into the water, where, tired, they both proceeded to drown a little bit.

Pink-hat giggled excitedly at this but 'Molly' chastised him. "Don't you think we should help them?"

"Oh fine!"

Together they entered the water and swam smoothly to where the cats had just gone under and dipped their heads under the water. They surfaced at the same time before yelling "Deeper!" In a gay tone, and sticking the hinds in the air once more. This time though, they each surfaced with a cat, which they dragged over to the shallow water, allowing them to pull themselves back onto dry land.

"Th- thank you," spluttered the light brown cat to Molly. The Black cat still said nothing.

"Of course my dear! But first, introductions! We British like to keep things proper!" She pointed to herself first and then her pink hat'd companion. "Now, I am Molly Hooper, and this is my 'sister' Jim, Jim Moriarty."

"Eh?" Replied the lighter cat eloquently.

"I'm Sherlock and this is John. We're trying to get to Paris."

"Oh! That's where we're going!" giggled Jim gayly. "You must join us!"

"Splendid!" said Sherlock, smiling.

"Lovely!" cried Molly, "You two bring up the rear! Now march!"

"Think 'Goose'" Jim told them happily, and Sherlock trotted after them, John not far behind, not looking very happy with the arrangement. He didn't like that 'Jim' fellow much. "And when we get to Paris you simply _must_ come with us to meet Aunt Harry!"

"Oh kill me now..." John muttered under his breath, trying to ignore Jim flaming Moriarty's arse swinging gaily on front of his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Why the hell am I writing this? I am at university and this is how I spend my tiem?

Well, nothing for it but to 'think Goose,' I suppose... FML.

'FML.' Thought John as he follwed the others. Why he was still tagging along he wasn't really sure. He didn't have anything specific to do in Paris, GOD knows he didn't want to spend any more time than he had to with these Geese, espescially the one in the pink hat. What was his name? Jim?

Well, anyway, it wasn't like he had anywhere else to be. He had no family after all, and no real friends; he wandered around too long for that. 'May as well make sure that this Sherlock guy doesn't die on his way home I suppose. Doesn't exactly look like a practical kind of cat...'

It was odd really, Sherlock really acted like a bit of a dick, and his behaviour towards John had been no exception, and yet for some reason John couldn't fathom, he let him get away with it. They seemed to get on though... they fit together well, despite the fact that they had only really known each other for probably less than a day.

The others were having a conversation but John wasn't really listening.

"We're going to Paris to meet our Aunt Harriet! You simply must come along!" cried Jim shrilly.

"We're meeting her at Le Petit Cafe!" chorused Molly.

"La Petit Cafe? The famous restaurant?" Asked Sherlock. "The owner there owes me a favour. I figured out how the mice were getting into his kitchen."

This brought John back to the conversation, "And you just told him? You had a conversation with a human?" He stared at Sherlock incredulously, who in turn rolled his eyes, at least as much as a cat can.

"Of course not! Don't be such an idiot John, it's quite beneath you! No, I _ate_ the mice. The owner was far too dull to try and waste time on explanations; but he appreciated the help nonetheless and now he gives me free food if ever I go there."

John simply accepted this and on they went.

Nothing eventful happened for a while after that. When they reached the cafe however there was a loud commotion, and a flurry of feathers as a large Goose came flying out of the kitchen door and down the alleyway towards them.

"Why!" Gasped Jim, "Why it's Aunt Harriet!"

The new Goose, only now noticing them shrieked in delight and stumbled up to them awquardly. "Ah! If it isn't my two favourite nieces!" She exclaimed loudly, earning a dark look from Kim, which she failed to notice.

"Clearly very heavily intoxicated," Sherlock muttered out of the corner of his mouth to John.

"I- I'd noticed..." was all John said in reply.

"Oh! Aunt Harriet what happened to your lovely tail feathers!" cried Molly, noticing for the first time that Harriets rump had been roughly plucked, leaving visible a sore red patch of pimply skin.

"You won't believe what they tried to do!" garbled Harriet as Molly and Jim fretted over her tail. "Prime country Goose! A la Provencale, STUFFED with chestnuts, and BASTED in white wine!" She read off the menu outside the front of the restaurant where they had somehow ended up.

"Basted? She's been _marinated_ in it!" John muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, causing the larger cat to giggle slightly.

Jim and Molly, who seemed to have totally forgotten about John and Sherlock picked up Harriet by the wings and escorted her away, laughing the whole time, about what, John had no idea...

Snanderson crept carefully into the stables, even though his squeaky shoes gave him away anyway, not that there was anyone to hear him but Sarah the horse.

She scowled at him, not that he noticed for all her efforts.

"Soon, night operation: Cat Napper will be completed! Wish me luck Sarah!" ha called before climbing onto his battered mororcycle and driving off into the night.

Does anyone else go to Aberdeen university btw? I know NO fangirls there. This is very sad for me.

So then... turns out i'm not dead yet, and i'm determined to finish this story! And then onto revision!... vikings and anthropology. yay.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Anthea lay in her new, too small wicker basket next to the hay mound; dozing quietly. Warm and comfortabl, paws twitching as if fiddling with an imaginary toy.

"Hey, listen!" Mycroft. Damn.

'Ohhhh... go to SLEEP Mycroft!' she thought to herself, 'I want to SLEEP!'

"Anthea!" he hissed, kicking her gently from his own position in his new side car bed. 'Damn, can't pretend forever I suppose...'

"...Yes?"

"Can you hear that?" He leaned up further from his stolen bed, tipping his bowler hat back further for a better view.

"Oh Mycroft it's probably nothing but a cricket bug!"

"No, it's squeaky shoes approaching..."

"Cricket bugs don't wear shoes..." Anthea puzzled to herself softly... "How could he-"

"Shhhh Anthea! Oxford shoes; size nine and a half, with a hole in the left sole-"

"What colour are they?"

"Bla-" he started before looking down at her, an amused twinkle in his eye.

"The squeaking's stopped", he realised.

"Do you want me to call the hounds?"

"I'm the leader! I can check it out myself!"

Anthea sighed. He was probably still exited by the earlier incident. Wanting to take care of everything himself. Perhaps it was a midlife crisis? If she thought he was at all likely to do something so normal. Next he would be herding sheep and putting up shelves... crusing round town in his new sidecar.

"The noise has stopped, Mycroft go back to sleep! You have too much to do tomorrow and I'm not going to let you be grumpy at me all day just because you didnt get enough sleep!" Baring her teeth at him.

"... Fine." He conceded. He would have put up more of an argument but he knew she was right, and he knew from experience that those teeth hurt.

Begrudgingly, he pulled his new bowler hat back over his eyes and settled back in, a childish frown on his face.

Within minutes he was asleep, snoring like an old man, with the exhausted Anthea swiftly following.

Neither noticed when the hay mound began to shift at the top; a long black rod protruding slowly.

"Bethany..." Mycroft muttered in his sleep, making the rod pause in it's movements, "shut the hell up..."

A head suddenly followed after the rod and the evil Snanderson peered down at them nervously, making sure they were still asleep before beginning to lower the rod once more.

Down, down, till the the hook caught under the brim of the hat on top of Mycroft's head.

"Give me my hat back dog!" Hissed Snanderson, "it doesn't even fit you, you're a dog!"

He slowly lifted the hat upwards, but fumbled, sending the hat tumbling down onto Anthea's head.

Mycroft reached up slowly, his head felt different.

Paws groped in the darkness, felling nothing... HIS HAT! Where was his hat?

He looked around in the darkness; determined. It was probably just on the floo- "Anthea! Give me my hat!" Ripping the hat from her head, "It's MY hat! I'm the leader!"

"I never took anything from you but you're biscuits! And that was for your own damn good!" She cried, indignant.

As they both settled again, the hook snook down, to try to retake the hat. As it lifted up however, Mycroft, who had been feigning sleep, snatched it back down, looking around madly for the thief and keeping the hat held firmly to his head. Eventually relaxing enough to go back to sleep.

A hand slowly crept out of the hay bale behind him, and began to scratch under his arm.

"Mmmm..." he moaned "Ohhhh mm hho!"

Anthea began giggling softly in her sleep from her spot beside his.

"Hmmm ohhhh!"

Snanderson continued to rub Mycroft until his hands fell from his head, when he tried so snatch the hat again, but was thwarted by a sleeping Mycroft. So he started up again.

"Oh Anthea! Faster!"

"Mmmm... Im scratching as fast as I can..." she murmured, eyes still closed, leg whirring madly.

"Ah that's good!" he cried, leaning up and stretching out all four legs, allowing sinister Snanderson to come out from the hay bale and steal the hat with his teeth, still using both hands to pleasure Mycroft.

As soon as his head was back in the bale he brought his hands back, leaving Mycroft to relax back into his seat.

Snanderson, now full confidence, grinned smugly to himself and continued to collect his evidence.

He hooked the wicker basket, and began to lift Anthea slowly skywards, with her still sleeping away.

Mycroft however, did notice, as Anthea rose slowly up to his level, then kept on going!

He was still mostly asleep however, so it took a moment for even his brain to register that this was not strictly usual... maybe it was a dream? 'No, not a dream,' he though to himself as a very solid and still sleeping Anthea slid down into his bed from nowhere and began cuddling up to him.

"Mmm cosy," she muttered as she wagged her tail, slapping him repeatedly in his now very awake face as she moved in closer. "You've been cheating on your diet."

"Anthea!" he pushed her away, affronted, when he suddenly heard the horn on his sidecar beeping awquardly.

Turning around he saw that someone was trying to steal his Bumbershoot!

Enraged, he yanked it back down, bringing Snanderson toppling down from his position atop the hay mound to fall on top of them.

"You!" Anthea was now wide awake as well.

Snanderson suddenly developed bladder issues.

"You're going to get it good!" She barked at him exitedly, tail wagging, ready for the chase.

To Snanderson this just sounded like unintelligeble barking, but the message seemed to get through.

Snanderson dived back into the hay mound, before roaring back out on his Motorcycle, grabbing the side car with the Umbrella still inside, the cat basket already in hand and the hat on his head.

"Get back here!" screamed Anthea.

Mycroft meerely narrowed his eyes at him, already formulating a plan to retrieve his beloved Umbrella.


	6. Chapter 6

I just saw Martin Freeman on that New Years show thing and I could feel the blood going to my face. New years eve? Who knew? And I haven't even been a creepy loner this week! I spent 3 days at a friends and went down to London with them! I behaved like a real human being and everything.

Chapter 6

The Moon hung low over Paris, the only thing visible in the sky; everything else obscured by the clouds, and the light pollution from the city below.

In the rougher part of town, if someone had of looked out the window, it's possible that they would have seen the two cats gracefully running along the rooftops of the old wonky buildings.

"I need to get home tonight John," Sherlock wined, "I need to tell Madame Hudson about Snanderson so that she can call the police!"

"How are you going to _tell_ her that then?"

"Madame always listens to me. If I return and attack Snanderson then I'm sure even she can understand."

"Yes well, I'M tired and I'm not letting you go back there on your own. I feel responsible now," he lied smoothly, so that not even Sherlock noticed, as he was too busy being obstinate to pay too much attention. "I want to make sure you actually get there, and after knowing you for all of a day, I can confidently say that that will not happen without issue if you're left to your own devices. Frankly, I don't know how you've survived this long by yourself."

"Alright alright, so where are you going then? Are we nearly there yet?"

"Right around this corner," he said as they walked around some chimneys, "It's not exactly the Ritz,"

'You don't say,' thought Sherlock as he beheld the tall building. It looked like it could collapse at any moment. If John saw where Sherlock lived on Baker Street his eyes might fall out of their sockets.

"But it's safe-"

'If you say so.'

"And quiet."

It was unfortunate, that John chose to say this at the exact moment that the windows of said Attic flew open in an explosion of light and Jazz.

"Oh my God." If he had hands, John would have face plamed at this moment. "Not them again. I keep telling them they cant stay here!"

"Who?"

"Lestrade and his gang. They're this buch of cats who like to play Jazz at all hours of the night. Lestrade keeps trying to get me to call him Scatcat."

"Friends of yours?"

"Well they're... they're real Swingers."

"Swingers? What is a Swinger?"

"Oh did I say Swingers? I meant pricks. Yeah that's it they're all pricks."

"Well I'm not waiting for you to pick out somewhere else so it looks like we'll be staying here." Sherlock said, trotting off towards the open window.

John opened his mouth to protest but quickly realised that there was nothing that he could do and followed after.

"Hey Lestrade." John shouted in through the open window to the greying cat lying on the bed below, slightly out of breath after just finishing a long jazz trumpet solo. He was wearing a red bow tie and small black bowler hat. 'From an old woman's fascinator most likely,' thought Sherlock.

"Hahaha oh looky here! Big Man John Watson's back in his accomodatiON! C'mon down here brother!"

'Good lord was that supposed to rhyme or something?' Sherlock watched calmly as John complied, sliding across the keys on the rotten old Piano and onto the bed next to where Lestrade sat.

"Lestrade-"

"Scatcat."

"...Scatcat- you remember last time I saw you I practically begged you to stop speaking like that around me."

"Hey calm down man!" Called a skinny light coloured cat wearing a string of blue pearls around his neck, as well as a short blonde wig and a blue ladies hat with pink flowers. 'Huh,' thought John. This was new. 'Since when was Dimmock a transvestite?'

"Yeah! Who's the freak anyway?" Asked Donovan, nodding at Sherlock who had moved down from the window to join John. 'No change there then.' He thought, Sally had never been particularly polite.

Another fat cat wearing a green hat and a spotted neckerchief yelled something jovial and incomprehensible in Italien at the two of them from the corner of the bed while queezing an accordian till it vomited out it's pained squeals.

"Hi Angelo," John replied frustratedly before turning back to Lestrade, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Well we needed somewhere to practice,"

"So you just invaded my house?"

"Well you weren't using it." Interjected Sherlock casually.

'You're supposed to be on my side you bastard.' Thought Jonn ending a glare at Sherlock, which was promptly ignored.

"See!" Excalimed Lestrade grinning, "This cat knows where it's at!"

"Know's where what's at?"

"No! Sherlock don't!" John warned swiftly, eyes widening as he realised what was about to happen and he dived to try to cover Sherlock's mouth with his paw. Too late.

"EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE A CAT!" Lestrade began to sing and the others immediately chorused in with the catawawling and began to play their instruments once more.

"John, anything for you, let us serenade you and your date!"

"He's not my date!" yelled John leaping back up through the window away from:

"'COS A CAT'S THE ONLY CAT, WHO KNOWS WHERE IT'S AT!"

John sat calmly on the roof. He could still hear the enthusiastic singing of the 'Swingers' as they proceeded to trash his house up.

Suddenly there was a massive crash and the whole building shook beneath him, followed by another, then another. John spread out his legs wide to brace himself so that he didn't lose his balance and fall right off the roof.

"What the hell are they doing to my home?" he bellowed to the sleek black cat who had just jumped up onto the slate tiles to join him.

"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock replied. John thought about this as the crashes continued and the music began to grow fainter.

'No' he thought, he probably didn't. This idea was reinforced when he spotted the Swingers parading down the street below, instruments now in ruins yet somehow still playing. 'How did they get down there so fast?'

"EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE A CAT!" Still echoed faintly through the night.

He stayed sat there on the roof in silence for a few minutes as Sherlock sat next to him on the apex of the roof.

After a while his leg began to ache slightly so he shifted, and then Sherlock spoke.

"John," he began, "Your friends are really awful. I can't stand them."

John giggled and muttered: "Neither can I." Which earned a small smirk from Sherlock. "But if you're in Jam they'll help you out... and I'd do the same for them of course."

Shelock considered this for a few minutes."Like you helped me out earlier," he commented contemplatively.

"Indeed. The sun's coming up now," John pointed out, changing the subject, "I suppose you'll be wanting to go home now?" He tried to keep the sadness out of his voice. It was silly really, to be sad about Sherlock going home and not seeing him again. After all he'd only known him for a day and already he'd been in more trouble than he'd found himself in in _months_!

"It can wait for another hour or so," was all Sherlock said in an enigmatic reply, and maybe John imagined it but he thought he felt something soft briefly twist around his own tail, but then it was gone, and the two cats watched together as the sun rose over the dark rooftops.

However it wasn't the view that they were thinking about.

To anyone who wanted me to write out the whole song and all that Jazz, sorry but I think i'd rather die XDXD

Also check out the first ten seconds: http:/ .c om/watch?v=Z9KjCmO V8ww&feature=related WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was early morning, and two cats were strolling silently through the streets of the richest part of Paris.

The sun was shining and the sky was clear, but it didn't relect the moods of the cats at all.

They turned a corner and the light brown cat let out a gasp of air. "Wow! What a place..."

"That one over there," Sherlock gestured with his paw to an extremely impressive house at the far end of the street, "That is 221 Baker Street, Madame Hudson's home."

"Your home," corrected John, and Sherlock nodded, a strange, indefineably look on his face that John didn't understand.

"Yes."

John suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He didn't belong here, he didn't belong with Sherlock, Their worlds were too different and he was fooling himself if he thought that they could ever really have remained friends.

"It's... really fancy."

"You should take a look, meet Madame Hudson." ventured Sherlock.

"I-" John looked wistfully at him, then to the house and back again. "I don't know what to say Sherlock, I really can't stay here with you." He turned around and walked began to walk away, his feet feeling like lead with each step. It shouldn't be so hard to leave this other cat that he had met only yesterday morning, but it was. He knew though, he knew he couldn't stay here. He didn't belong. This 'Madame Hudson' would probably take one look at him, _the stray who had followed her beloved Sherlock home,_ and would chase him out of the house with a broom. Or more likely get a servant to do it.

He felt like he'd eaten a cannon ball, and at the same time he wanted to be sick.

He didn't look back, he didn't dare look at Sherlock. He felt lie such a coward, leaving just because he was ashamed of what he was; a scruffy stray with a limp and a crooked tail and graying fur.

Sherlock wouldn't really want him here anyway. He had enjoyed it earlier when John had been so amazed by his mind, he probably just wanted to impress John a bit more before he chucked him out.

However, if John had of looked back he might have seen the almost... distraught look on the other cat's face.

Sherlock simply stood there for a moment, watching John walk away slowly. He wanted to run after him and try and persuade him to come back, but he couldn't move, his feet were rooted to the floor somehow.

He wanted to shout, but there was something large stuck in his throat.

He didn't understand what was happening to him right now, but he knew that there was a strange achey feeling in his chest, one that only increased as the lighter cat moved further and further away.

He had wanted John to come in, he could have stayed for tea. Madame Hudson would definitely have liked him he was sure; and she was always telling Sherlock that he should make more friends. She would have been ever so exited. He could have even stayed at the house, after all, he had led Sherlock home and taken him to his home last night, it was the least Sherlock could do, and it wasn't as if they didn't have room...

But John, John hadn't wanted to. He supposed it shouldn't have surprised him really. He didn't make friends. He couldn't. Usually people decided within minutes that they didn't want anything else to do with him, but John had lasted a full day, even seemed to have enjoyed his company... and Sherlock was never wrong when it came to what was going on in others' heads. But then John had already surprised him once, hadn't he?

Even now, as he walked away, Sherlock could have sworn that John looked sad, from his body language, but if he was, then why would he be leaving?

He had really thought that John was different... or maybe he had just wanted him to be.

As John turned the corner away from Baker Street, Sherlock found his feet suddenly released. Languidly, he stretched his limbs again, and made his way back towards the impressive front doors of No. 221, ready to tell Madame Hudson about Snanderson's treachery.

Unfortunately, distracted as he was by thisd phantom pain in his chest, he failed to observe the eyes that watched him out from between the curtains.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock was so deep in his reverie as he wandered through the door that he didn't even stop to think why it was open.

He didn't notice the slightly short man stood behind the door.

Most importantly, he didn't notice the sack until it came down over him, leaving him trapped as he was lifted skywards and the rough burlap sack was tied quickly at the top leaving him with no escape.

He thrashed and yowled, pushing his claws through the thick material, pleased when he heard Snanderson's familiar yelp of pain.

When he heard Madame Hudson's lilting voice he redoubled his efforts and made twice as much noise as before, hoping to attract her attention.

"Snanderson? Snanderson is that you?" She called. (I don't know if I mentioned this already but I renamed him Snanderson because he looks a little like Snape due to his hair.)

He felt the bag being thrown around more as Snanderson raced through the house, feet thudding on the carpet, the echoing once more on the stone of the kitchen floor.

He heard a loud metal squeal as he was thrown into a shallow, hard container. 'The oven, then?'

Before Snanderson's feet were moving away again, back towards where Madame Hudson stood by the open front door calling him.

"Snanderson? Oh Snanderson thought I heard him... he sounded angry so I came running but now... there's nothing here." Sherlock could hear a tremble in her voice as though she were about to burst into tears, but what could he do?

"Oh my dear Madame, I'm afraid you are imagining things in your distress,"

"No, I was sure-"

"Now now Madame, please go and have a lie down and I shall bring you a cup of tea in a few minutes."

"Y-yes alright. Thankyou Snanderson."

'Nononononono!' Thought Sherlock _almost_ desperately as he heard Mrs Hudson's retreating footsteps. He yowled as loud as he could but it remained unheard outside the oven.

Cursing his own stupidity, he was relieved that at least John was not here. If he couldn't escape first, Snanderson was probably going to drown him.

At the same time across town...

John hadn't got very far. He kept wanting to turn back and tried to think of excuses to show up at Sherlock's door, then snapping himself out of it and starting to walk again.

He couldn't go back now, it was too late. Sherlock had invited him to stay and he had declined, and the reasons were all still there. He knew that it would be stupid really; to go back.

Still... he could go back to his home in the destroyed attic room. He still hadn't actually checked out the damage and he probably should... besides Lestrade and his gang might be there again by now, and right now he thought he would quite like to be with friends... even if it was _them._

… And if that flat was on the other side of town to where he was headed and meant that he had to walk past Sherlock's house again then well, there wasn't much that he could do about that now was there?

Meanwhile, at the legion of doom...

"I'm hungry! *Hic*" complained Donovan loudly, collapsing dramatically where she was standing. They were currently in an alley way digging through the bins behind a fish restaurant, but it was slim pickings. So far all they had found was a crate of wine bottles hidden out here by the waiters so that they could drink it on their break. After they had acidentally broken one of the bottles though they had decided that they all quite liked it.

"I could make some pasta!" cried Angelo but the others just ignored him. Angelo had fallen off a wall a few years ago and ever since he kept having delusions that he was some kind of Italian chef. Lestrade Dimmock still had the bald spot from when Angelo had actually tried to start a fire for cooking. Shortly after he had donned the wig.

"Hey what about that *hic* Sherlock guy?" Lestrade suggested. "John's friend!"

"What about him?" Asked Dimmock, looking dumb as usual before letting out a large burp.

"Well, he was John's friend, John's our friend, ergo, Sherlock's our friend. He was going home today, I asked him where he lived last night and he said Baker Street! That guy's gotta be loaded! He'll give us food!"

"Yeah thassssssssss a great idea!" Chimed Donovan, leaping back to her feet. "Lesssssss go!"

And then they were off, all of them stumbling clumsily down the road, unknowingly on a collision course with one cat named John Watson.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

John had stopped at the top of Baker Street. It wouldn't hurt would it? Just to go say hi as he passed again? 'Well actually yes,' he thought to himself, 'it would. Not to mention i'd look like an idiot. I mean he already thinks that i'm an idiot, he thinks everybody is, but, well, a bigger idiot...'

No, he would just go straight home.

He had finally hardened his resolve and was beginning to turn when he saw a strange loking man with longish hair leaving Sherlock's house, and walking round towards where the stables probably were.

His clothing was good, but not good enough to suggest that he owned a house like that. So a servant then? Then it hit him, this man was probably Snanderson, the man that Sherlock had told him catnapped him and took him out into the middle of nowhere. He was carrying some kind of burlap sack, but held far out from his body... which was almost completely uninteresting until John noticed that it was moving.

"Sherlock!" He yowled. He knew he shouldn't have left him. Sherlock really couldn't look after himself at all.

He pelted down the street at top speed, racing after Snanderson. He quickly caught up with him just as the man was entering the stables.

He climbed up onto an old cart next to a broken window and watched as Snanderson dumped Sherlock carelessly, still in the sack, into a large chest and closed it with a master lock.

John quietly snook in through the window and up onto the hay shelf, before leaping down onto Snanderson's back with his claws extended.

Snanderson let out a girly scream before he threw John off of him and into the door. John was dazed, and tried to push himself back to his feet, but it was not very easy. He had hit the wall hard with a combination of his head and his bad leg. His leg was screaming at him even while the world was spinning around him.

Snanderson had recovered already however, and was stalking towards him, murder in his eyes.

Snanderson did NOT like cats.

"So you made a little friend did you Freak?" He hissed in the direction of the locked chest, venom in his voice. "And he's just as much menace as you! Well I'll take care of him, before I come back for YOU."

From inside the chest Sherlock had heard everything that was going on. He had heard Anderson scream in pain, and heard a dull thud as something soft hit something very hard.

'Friend?' he wondered, 'Fr-' "John!" Anderson was going to kill John, John who had come back to him, who was trying to save him!

"Sarah! Help John! Help him!" He yelled as loudly as he could, hoping that the horse was actually in the stables to hear him.

He was in luck. As Snanderson stalked towards John he grabbed a pitchfork, getting ready to spear the bamboozled cat; until suddenly, he found he couldn't move any further. He turned round to see Sarah pulling at one of his coat tails with her mouth.

John took advantage of this moment to jump back up onto the hay shelf. All the hay was piled up at one end, directly over Snanderson's struggling head, and there was a pitchfork wdged into the bottom bale. Jumping ontop of the fork, John managed to topple all of the bales on top of Snanderson, so that his head hit the floor hard, knocking him out cold.

John leapt quickly back down to the chest, not noticing Sarah watching him with interest.

"SHERLOCK? Sherlock are you alright?"

"John? John? What are you doing here?"

"You could be a little more grateful y'know," John complianed, relieved that his friend was obviously not badly hurt, surprised more than anything, it sounded like.

John moved out of the way when the horse, "I'm Sarah, by the way," moved over and swiftly kicked the lock off of the box, and kicked open the lid.

John swiftly leapt in and began to tease the rope from around the neck of the sack with his teeth.

In under a minute Sherlock's head was out of the bag, swiftly followed by the rest of his body. He gave himself a quick shake to get his fur all back in order before turning to stare at John. After about a minute, this began to get a little bit creepy.

"Are you going to say anything?" John tried, feeling suddenly very nervous. He couldn't quite work out what was going on in Sherlock's head from his face and body language, but he didn't really look very happy. But then, he didn't seem to look angry either.

His body was ridgid, and his eyes were wide and staring, straight into John's own. But it wasn't a burning stare, he looked almost, surprised? Shocked, even?

"You... came back?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry I was just passing by, and- no don't look at me like that I really was and I saw Snanderson with the sack so I came to help and I-" What else could he say? "I'll leave now if your okay. You don't owe me anything."

"I suppose as a stray you've seen plently of adventures like this and near death experiences,"

"Oh yes, enough for one lifetime; far too much. Much more than usual today though... you certainly have a talent for getting into trouble."

"How would you like to see some more?"

"Oh God yes." John turned to grin at his companion, and for the first time he saw a true smile on the black cat's face.

"Then you'll stay here, with me?"

"Stay here? But what about Madame Hudson? What will she say?"

"She'll be thrilled of course! She's always telling me that I need to get out and make friends, besides, what's not to like?"

"What, about a crippled stray cat coming into your house and eating all your food?"

"Trust me John," He smiled; and John did.

Afterwards, with Sarah's help, Snanderson had somehow been bundled into the large chest that had previously contained Serlock, locked in and placed outside ready to be collected by the post and sent off to Timbuktu.

John and Sherlock went inside to find Mrs Hudson, and things really couldn't have turned out any better.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10- Epilogue

"Now my pets, a little closer together," Madame Hudson encouraged, as John and Sherlock posed reluctantly on the small blue sofa in the drawing room.

As John watched Madame Hudson adjusting the lense on her expensive new camera, he reminisced on the events of the last few weeks: when they had re-entered the house Madame Hudson had been so thrilled to see Sherlock that she hadn't even noticed John for a full ten minutes! Which is a bloody long time to be stood around awquardly.

When she had noticed she had been surprised at first, unsure who he was, but when Sherlock had brushed against him to show that he was a friend of his she had been thrilled and, taking in his sorry state had immediately called for Snanderson to bring them something to eat, but, when he had not appeared, had resigned to getting it herself.

"Just this once, mind. I'm not the housekeeper!" She informed them as she filled two bowls to the top with fresh fish.

From there on it had been smooth sailing. It seemed she had been expecting him to stay from the moment she had realised Sherlock liked him, and he now joined in with almost everything Sherlock got up to on a daily basis. Snanderson had 'mysteriously left his job and ran away,' never to be seen again, Madame Hudson assumed that he had probably eloped with some girl, an idea that Sherlock openly scoffed at, but he had been scratched out of the will.

Madame Hudson moved over to the the sofa to quickly neaten up a patch of John's fur, saying "This young man really is very handsome! What do you say Sherlock? Shall we keep him in the family?" Sherlock simply purred gently and shifted in closer as Madame Hudson prodded him in John's direction before heading back over to the camera. "We need a _man_ around the house," she teased, at which Sherlock had the grace to look just slightly offended.

"Now don't move! _Smile_, say cheese!" And with a puff of foul smelling smoke their picture had been taken. "Now run along downstairs! There's a surprise for you! And while I remember, I changed my will again, after all, I have to make sure you're both provided for, as well as your future little ones!" Her voice faded away as she danced from the room, Sherlock and John simply grinning slightly and sighing after the mad old woman.

They raced each other downstairs, to where they heard strange, suspiciously _jazzy_ noises coming from one of the rooms.

"Lestrade?" Bawked John as he saw the older cat surrounded by his crew and what looked like half the other strays in Paris. "What are you doing here?"

"Madame Hudson's new foundation! She's started a home for all the alley cats of Paris!" He grinned, then looked a little nervous and added, quietly, "Oh, and err, John? The whole thing with Snanderson by the way, we, err, well we wanted to help, in fact we were on our way here but we just couldn't find the place, I erm, well I don't know what happened! Sorry mate."

Sherlock neglected to mention the residual smell of booze on Lestrade and his gang, obviously there had been a few repeat perfomances after they had first realised the amazing affects of wine.

"Nah! That's alright mate!" John smiled, and all was forgiven.

Lestrade however, now feeling elated, brough his trumpet to his lips once more and, immediately joined by Donovan, Angelo and Dimmock, began another round of "Everybody wants to be a cat", only this time, joined by Sarah, who had her head stuck in through an open window, Harry, Jim and Molly, 'Should they really be indoors?' John thought, 'Doesn't Madame Hudson know that birds are incontinent?', Mycroft and Anthea, 'Who the hell are they?' and anyone else in the room who knew the words.

Sherlock, seeing the slightly sick look on John's face, asked, "So, a little bird told me that one of our neighbours was bludgeoned to death last night in her bed. She lived alone so no-ones called the police yet... want to check it out?"

"Oh yeahhh!" cried John, leading the way out of the party.

And they both lived happily ever after... sort of.


End file.
